


these three cubic feet of bone and blood and meat

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, BAMF!John, BAMF!Mycroft, Drama, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He opens his eyes. John is not in the chair beside his bed." Set immediately after TGG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everything hurts. It’s dark and noisy and everything hurts, and Sherlock gasps in a breath but it’s water, and panic and pain, everything hurts and it’s frightening, and Sherlock is almost never frightened of anything but in the last fifteen minutes he’s been abjectly terrified more times than he’s ever been in his life, and now the water is filling his lungs and he can’t see or hear and something pushes him, a strong hard shove, and it isn’t until his head breaks the surface that he realizes it was pushing him up, and he gulps down air and can’t breathe, still can’t breathe, and a hand pulls him up, out of the water, he can feel broken bones and tears in his skin react to the heat — why is it so hot, he was at the pool, it was chilly there — and he vomits, chlorine-treated water and his own bile and coughing, just enough presence of mind to turn his head so he doesn’t aspirate it, his throat is raw and he croaks out a name before he passes out, “John?” and then he is swallowed in darkness, a different kind than before, quiet and cold.

When it’s bright again, Sherlock is lying on a hospital bed. His brain is working, but not well enough, so he knows he must be drugged, which means burns and probably internal bleeding. He keeps his eyes shut — too bright, too much light just yet — and catalogs memories. He remembers going to the pool, he remembers the shock and the drop of his stomach at that first glimpse of John, he remembers having to hold himself back when John revealed the Semtex vest. He remembers dancing red sniper lights, he remembers a slamming door, he remembers…He shudders. He remembers Moriarty, his voice (Dublin, lower-class but educated, playing with intonation and careful word choice, intelligent, psychopath), his teasing, his utter disregard for John. He remembers, and makes a mental note to give Mycroft everything because if Moriarty hurt John then Sherlock will hurt Moriarty. And then it flickers in his memory: he remembers holding the gun, he remembers John giving a jerk of the head to signal his understanding, he remembers Moriarty grinning with self-assurance that Sherlock wouldn’t do it.

He doesn’t remember anything else until someone pulled him out of the pool. Now is the time to open his eyes, to see John sitting beside his bed, probably asleep (it’s been a long day for him, Sherlock will forgive it), see Mycroft’s assistant texting status updates, see Lestrade waiting for the description Sherlock can give which will be more useful than the one John already gave. Sherlock prepares himself.

When he opens his eyes, he thinks, he will tell John that they need to have a discussion about the events of the day. That the heart Moriarty spoke of is obviously a metaphor, not his literal heart (which appears to functioning relatively well if the beeps of the monitor and his own observations are to be trusted, which they are, of course), and that this experience has proven to Sherlock that he needs John around, needs him not to leave, not ever. Sherlock knows that John is quietly bisexual, knows that John finds him attractive. Sherlock isn’t very sexually motivated, but he needs John, needs him in both a literal (John is helpful, has many useful skills) sense and a more abstract (John makes him feel happy and safe and appreciated all the time and no one makes him feel things other than frustration, and he’s gotten rather used to feeling other emotions and if John is gone he won’t) way. 

He opens his eyes. John is not in the chair beside his bed. John has not been there — no half-read shoddy magazine, no depressions in the chair to match his frame, no residual warmth or scent to show he’d simply popped out for the toilet or a drink. John isn’t there. Sherlock panics again, his heart racing, his voice crying out for John; nurses arrive, stick him with something (a sedative, obviously, he hates sedatives with a passion, hates the way they slow his mind even more, don’t the stupid nurses understand he needs his mind, he needs it to find John), and the darkness swallows him up again.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

John doesn't remember much. He remembers getting snagged, getting forced into the vest under threat to Harry and Sherlock and most of London. He remembers Sherlock looking wary and unsure of himself for the first time ever. He remembers trying to make a joke and he remembers the shock of that last red sniper light. And then he doesn't remember anything but screaming, searing pain. 

"Of course you don't, Johnny boy," that hideous voice laughs out at him, and John realizes he's said this all aloud. "A good hard thwack on the head with a piece of concrete and then another with the butt of a gun, well, that'll do that to a man, and to his little dog, too." John realizes his eyes haven't opened yet, and he forces them to do so, sees Moriarty's face leering at him. Wishes he hadn't opened them at all, ever again.

"Am I the dog in this scenario?" John's voice sounds strange to his own ears: strained and hoarse. He hopes it's hoarse from smoke inhalation and pain, not from screaming. He will not scream.

"Oh, that's jokes!" Moriarty giggles, a high, bloodcurdling sound. "Yes, Johnny boy, but don't be so hard on yourself. You saved Sherlock, like a good little puppy would save his master, pushed him up out of the water you were drowning in."

"In which we were drowning." It's petty, a half-whisper because he can't stop himself, it's what Sherlock would say, and it's stupid and he should have kept his mouth shut because then everything explodes into pain again and he doesn't see anything.

It could be hours or days or weeks later when he opens his eyes again. The back of his head is wet, probably blood if the coppery smell he can't get out of his nostrils is any indication. He tries to focus: his thoughts are muddied but seem to make sense. He's tied hand, foot, torso, and legs to a chair, but his fine motor movement (fingers and toes and shoulders) seems to be mostly intact. He makes a note to double-check the bad shoulder, which has a strange numb feeling he doesn't like. He's testing his vision (a bit blurry, whether from blood loss or brain damage or lack of sleep he can't tell) when he notices the small rolling cart across the room from him. 

Afghanistan was rough. John was never captured, but he treated those who were, often as they gave their reports on what had happened to them. He'd heard descriptions of the instruments of torture used, he'd read Army manuals about withstanding physical pain from any manner of implements, and of course he watched films and telly with torture scenes -- most of which were wildly unrealistic, but even they didn't prepare him for the drop in his stomach when he sees that cart. It would have looked innocuous enough in any other setting: a black shoebox-sized case, a handful of syringes, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and a scalpel. Nothing to be terrified of there. 

The tide of panic is rising in John's mind. He can feel a scream building in his guts, roiling and growing and scratching to get out, and it takes every ounce of training and natural stoicism and rage and pain he has to tamp it down to a mere whimper; even that feels like a failure. He cannot tear his eyes away from the cart, from the pliers and the tools of his own trade and the sheer gibbering terror of whatever is in that black box. When Moriarty comes in, genial and smiling in his way, John nearly weeps. Moriarty's grin is searing and triumphant, but soon disappears. 

When Moriarty leaves him that day, John has one pulverized toe, the scar on his shoulder has been meticulously torn open, a gash on his leg has been intentionally infected with what he sincerely hopes was mud, literal salt has been applied to all of his minor open wounds, and he's high as a kite on something he probably should be able to identify. The camera in the corner, shrouded in the shadows, watches as John Watson laughs brokenly, watches as he recites primary school poetry and sings Army songs, anything to keep awake and alert -- as alert as a drugged and battered and terrified man can be. If John was sober, he'd probably guess the injection he'd received was morphine, but he'd be wrong: it's a seven percent solution of cocaine, Sherlock Holmes's drug of choice.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes is livid. No one would know it, to look at him, all placid calm and pressed suits and clear open expression. But if Sherlock was to look at him, or the assistant, or Mummy (maybe Dr. Watson, too, but Mycroft can't be sure), they'd see the roiling rage under his smooth exterior. He is furious, as can be seen in the way he fiddles with the head of his walking stick, the way he sucks at the inside of his cheek, the way his eyes flit about the room in which his brother lies drugged and broken, the room in which Dr. Watson should be sitting with an annoyingly competent look on his face while he reads Sherlock's chart and makes stupid conclusions and is nice to people. 

But Dr. Watson is not here, and Mycroft is the only Holmes available, and somewhere a psychopath is  _playing games_  with Sherlock's heart. Mycroft cannot bear it, cannot handle it, and it is only the shattered small form on the hospital bed that keeps him from deigning to participate in legwork. If he could help, he would, but right now he's more help by bullying the nurses into easing Sherlock off of sedation. His brother needs to be awake for this, needs to help, needs to know what happened to Dr. Watson.

What had happened, it turned out, was a simple, stupid slip-up born out of confusion and panic and a rare moment of thoughtlessness on all of their parts. Detective Inspector Lestrade had managed to figure it out, which would no doubt infuriate Sherlock when he swam back up into consciousness. Footage from the scene showed Sherlock being pushed up out of the water, pushed by Dr. Watson's good arm. Sherlock had been pulled out by DI Lestrade, pulled to safety, and in the tension of the moment Dr. Watson had drifted aimlessly, unconscious in the pool. A few moments passed, no time at all really, but by the time DI Lestrade looked up from his work over Sherlock, Dr. Watson was gone.

From bad footage and hazy recollections and a bit of deduction even Sherlock would have supported, DI Lestrade had figured out that one of Moriarty's henchmen must have pulled Dr. Watson out of the pool and dragged him to a waiting car and sped off to the south somewhere. And they had nothing to go on, no leads at all, and only the vaguest hope that Moriarty had been fatally wounded in the explosion. Mycroft made a mental note to see if he couldn't get DI Lestrade a promotion, or at least a raise: the man's clothing was simply abominable, and his impressive loyalty to Sherlock merited hazard pay at the very least.

 

DI Lestrade had managed makeshift tourniquets and even rigged a crude splint for Sherlock's right hand, which would likely never be the same. DI Lestrade had sat beside Sherlock in the ambulance, yelled over his shouting to remind the nurses of Sherlock's allergies and his history of intravenous drug use, which would no doubt lessen the effectiveness of any particular anesthetic. DI Lestrade had argued with the nurses about sedating him, had bullied Officer Donovan and the other members of his team into combing the still-smoldering wreckage of the pool for evidence, had made his displeasure at being sent home to rest known. 

And then DI Lestrade had cried, the angry tears of a man unused to crying, as he'd told Mycroft everything that had happened, how he blamed himself for Dr. Watson's disappearance and for Sherlock's pain and for Moriarty's unknown whereabouts. When he'd stopped crying, DI Lestrade had shamefacedly handed Mycroft a recording of the CCTV and police footage from the scene, everything they had. Of course, Mycroft had already seen and memorized it, but the gesture was much appreciated. That gesture means that Mycroft has an extra copy to show Sherlock whenever he woke up.

It does, of course, also mean that Mycroft is absorbed in meticulously replaying the footage in his head, so some forgiveness should be earned for his not immediately noticing when Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes and cries out for John. The immediate rush of emotion immediately following that event is also to be forgiven: Mycroft Holmes has cried only eight times in his entire life since infancy, and this ninth occasion of tears is the only one born from joy and not a negative emotion. It is also the shortest of the emotional outbursts, lasting only a few seconds.

"Where is John?"

"We don't know yet."

It's what passes for love in their family, and they both know it -- Mycroft's brief spat of tears and the crinkle in his forehead say "I am so happy that you are not dead," while the tilt of Sherlock's chin says "thank you, I love you too," even as his mouth is sprouting profanities and obscenities and anatomically unlikely threats if he doesn't find John now.


	4. Chapter 4

Seventeen hours. That’s how long it takes Mycroft — despite utilizing many of his best connections and every ounce of his charm — to get his brother checked out of the hospital and ensconced (relatively) safely in the ruins of 221B Baker Street. And even then, Mycroft has had to sign a sworn affidavit that someone will be with Sherlock for the next twelve hours, which is not true, probably. In all likelihood, even if a guard or watcher was assigned, Sherlock would disable and escape them, and they would be lucky to live through it. Technically, though, Mycroft is thinking about the ways that Sherlock would not be alone: CCTV, the various undercover officers assigned to him, and the incontrovertible fact that if Sherlock left the flat, it would be to find Dr. Watson, in which case he would be “alone” for only the brief period of time required for travel.

Sherlock hasn’t spoken since asking about Dr. Watson, not even when a clumsy technician jarred his left hand, which was looking less and less like the delicate appendage it had been and more and more like a grotesque sort of mutated plum. They settle into the car at last, and the driver smoothly accelerates, thankfully not jerking Sherlock’s spinal cord.

They do not speak, make eye contact, or touch for the first few minutes of the drive. Sherlock stares out the dark-tinted window as if waiting to see Dr. Watson standing on a street corner, as if staring hard enough will make it happen. Mycroft is carefully not noticing the mechanical way Sherlock opens and closes his good hand, as if limbering up for a fight. Mycroft is also, after a few minutes, pointedly ignoring the glare that Sherlock has turned his way. 

Sherlock really is dreadfully predictable, with his dramatics and histrionics and general indulgence in emotional excess. Once upon a time, Mycroft might have counseled him to leave the emotional aspect alone, but after withdrawal, just seeing Sherlock act human was enough. Instead, Mycroft telegraphs his disapproval in other ways, the current method being talking aloud about Mummy’s plans for the yearly Holmes Winter Gala. This year, to match the theme to her chosen charity of choice, she is planning to recreate a medieval court complete with jousting, bards, and (her favorite part) a faux-Green Knight to ride in and challenge their father to a game of chess.

Sherlock somehow manages to ignore this monologue, choosing instead to incrementally intensify the body language cues that reveal his rage, his fear, his sorrow. That Mycroft is simultaneously having Anthea work her magic on a Blackberry will not escape notice, but the underlying message —  _do not allow your emotions to override your work_  — will come through clearly and be summarily ignored, as usual.

After depositing Sherlock at 221B Baker Street and instructing the delightfully batty landlady to hover, Mycroft turns to Anthea. “Report.”

“Still looking, but we’ve narrowed it a bit.” She sends him a map image, with concentric circles marked with probabilities. “Almost certainly in the docks area, given—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Any luck with Sherlock’s homeless network?”

“They’ve not seen anything yet, but they’re watching. They send their regards, as well, sir.”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, and DI Lestrade would like to see you in his office.”

“Very well.” Mycroft reaches into his pocket and extracts from it a badly battered bag of Maltesers, pops four in his mouth, and stares down Anthea as if daring her to say a word. Of course, because it’s Anthea, she doesn’t say a thing, and because it’s Anthea, he purses his lips, closes the bag, and places it across the seat from himself, telegraphing his (utterly false) disinterest in another piece.

For a moment, he considers lashing out at her. Anthea would allow him to do so, not even meeting his eyes, but it would be an empty catharsis. He’s not stupid, after all, and he can recognize moments when releasing emotion would be less helpful than maintaining calm. This is, he feels fairly sure, one of the latter moments. Probably.

—-

“DI Lestrade, how may I assist you?”

“Geoff, please, Mr. Holmes, and I think we’ve found something.” The silver-haired man pulls up a still image lifted from the crime scene footage. “See that, there?” He points to a nearly imperceptible shadow in the lower right-hand corner. 

“A footprint?”

“We think so, yeah. I’ve got Anderson down there taking photos, but I thought you’d want to see it yourself. It’s none of us, the size and make are wrong, so it’s either John, Sherlock, or—”

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft stands and offers his hand to DI Lestrade. “Well done.”

—-

It isn’t Sherlock’s shoeprint. Anyone with eyes would have known that, but Mycroft is too absorbed to give Anderson a stern lecture about doing his  _job, dammit, it is his job to not be an utter imbecile incapable of basic logic_. Instead, Mycroft carefully thinks through the immediate answer he knows. This cannot be Sherlock’s shoeprint for many reasons. Sherlock has long, bony feet with almost no arch. Mycroft has very clear memories of Sherlock’s toes poking him in the sides, of Sherlock’s moaning and groaning about finding long enough socks, of Sherlock padding downstairs in too-short pajama pants to shoot up in the garden. Besides, he would rather scald all the skin off his feet than wear the execrably common trainers that leave this distinct waffle pattern.

Dr. Watson, conceivably, would own a pair of these types of shoes. However, according to the file, Dr. Watson’s feet are a bit too short and his arches a bit too high for this imprint. And although it is possible that the doctor would own trendy trainers, it is unlikely. Mycroft cannot recall ever having seen Dr. Watson in shoes other than near-Army regulation boots.

That leaves only one option: Moriarty, or someone with him. Sometimes the ways in which life imitated fiction made Mycroft almost giggle with glee. How silly, really, that a single, sooty shoeprint shielded from the flames by an errant piece of tile, might save Dr. Watson’s life — and Sherlock’s chance at becoming, as Anthea would say, “a real boy.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“The room is about three meters by, oh, four or so. Sherlock, it’s concrete, I think, and it’s bloody freezing, so maybe underground? A root cellar or something? The door’s steel, though, so maybe an old freezer or a storm shelter. I mean, there aren’t windows, but there is one in the hall outside, or maybe a light, I can see it coming through when he opens the door. It’s yellow.”

John has been describing his surroundings aloud for an hour, his voice growing hoarse and raw, echoing hollow and strange off the walls. He’d noticed, the second time Moriarty came, the way the psychopath had angled himself specifically, had pointedly chosen to harm certain areas more than others, had seemed to perform flourishes to an observer, had even taken a goddamn bow in the direction he’d been oriented to, like an actor on a stage, like this was all a game.

After, shaking and wishing his hands were free so he could scrabble away the tears and oozing just a little blood, John had peered into the dim and seen it, at last, a tiny red dot of light. Someone was watching, and if Mycroft or Sherlock had their way they’d be watching, too. So he started talking: descriptions of Moriarty, of his accomplices, of the approximate amount of blood he’d lost, and now of the room.

Moriarty doesn’t like it, if the burns to John’s thighs are any indication. But at this point, John can’t really give less of a shit about what Moriarty wants. 

“Shut up, or Himself over there will have to do something he’d surely rather not,” the henchman — and really, there’s no other word: the man who’s burning/stabbing/breaking John, bit by bit, since Moriarty tired of it after a while — snarls, holding the still-red hot poker like Sherlock holds a violin bow: idly, carelessly, as if it was merely an extension of his arm.

The comparison stops there: this brute is all bulk and bulging, vulgar muscles to Sherlock’s lean frame. The stomach, though; John makes note of that. It’s not muscle that’s bowing out from the henchman’s belt. That’s a stomach born from too much free time and too much time at the pub, and John remembers the weight he put on after Afghanistan. John remembers, and John makes notes in his head, because a few weeks living with Sherlock is enough to learn that, at least.

“Kill me? Go on then, he’ll still find you.” The words are gasped and painful, but worth it for the way Moriarty, watching from a corner, can’t quite keep the hatred out of his eyes.

“Oh, I’m gonna kill you, Johnny boy. I’d just rather wait until he’s here. Have him help me.”

John bares his teeth, feeling the wet thick coppery tang of blood fill his mouth. “I doubt it.”

“You don’t know him,” and the man is preening, and John would very much like to rip out his throat. “I do, we’re the same, you’ll see.”

“No, you’re—” a pause, and John does not scream, not anymore. “You’re not.”

A manic, terrifying grin, and a red-hot sear across John’s shoulder. “Yes we are.”

—-

John opens his eyes and there’s a bright light, and something is wrong. Moriarty is hissing, a brogue John knows Sherlock could identify (down to the bleeding  _street_ , probably), and it’s impenetrable, he can barely catch the idea: someone is coming, and they’re running. 

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, because he is so very, very tired. His consciousness flickers, ever so briefly, and he has a sudden vision of Sherlock, wrapped in an orange blanket, comprehension dawning. He dwells, for just a second, on the way Sherlock had looked at him across the street, police lights flickering across that face, and he feels his busted lip crack as he grins. They’ve loosened his feet, getting ready to move him. And now it will all end.

John opens his eyes, and in one motion that, were he not working with some broken bones and various other injuries he’s carefully not thinking about, would have been fluid, bulls up out of the chair, aiming his head for the gut of Moriarty’s henchman, bowling him over. A good solid kick, from football in the street with Harry, and the snap of bone and tendon, and the henchman probably isn’t dead but is definitely not getting up. 

Moriarty growls, cornered, a stray dog like the kind John used to watch tear at each other for scraps, and shouts in that incomprehensible brogue about dogs and stupidity, about Sherlock — something about Sherlock and fucking, and John won’t have that. Not from this thing shaped like a man.

“Shouldn’t have untied my legs,” and John is snarling, which is a surprise. He hadn’t realized that. His hands are still bound, and he sends a prayer skyward that the adrenaline keeps him going long enough to get this done.

All bared teeth and dilated pupils (and something about that strikes John, makes him take note, because Sherlock will want to know that), Moriarty pulls a gun from out of nowhere, and John remembers rugby (green sharp grass and the smell of people underestimating him, the thump of a body sprawling beneath him and the sweet-sour tang of blood in his mouth) and tackles forward, fast as a thought, his balance a touch off from, well, perfectly understandable reasons not limited to the way his hands are bound. Tackles, and luckily they’re about the same size and Moriarty isn’t ready (who could be ready, really, for a half-dead bound man barreling towards someone who’s armed), and the crack of Moriarty’s skull agains the concrete floor is the sweetest sound John has ever heard.

That is, it’s the sweetest sound John has ever heard until the click of the door opening, and Sherlock’s low rumble shaping around his name. John closes his eyes, just for a moment, because he is so, so tired, and the last thing he remembers is long-fingered hands catching him, cradling him, and the thrumming roar of Sherlock saying, “John.”

**Author's Note:**

> [title from "One Man Guy" by Loudon Wainwright III]


End file.
